{okay, break is over, time for the other pantoum}

Around Glasgow 274

Working in young adult literature can be a little weird, because we’re marketing an idea of youth to the youthful, and everyone has their perception of youth culture and what’s cool, and sometimes it can feel like Fourth Grade: The Later Years, and can be a real bummer. Recently, the experience of having a copy editor tell me that a word usage or whatever “isn’t what people actually say,” (actual phrase: “Nobody says that”) despite a.) me being “somebody,” b.) me having heard that exact word and stuff like that daily growing up and even now, I realized anew that the world is full of different perceptions, and only hubris – and privilege – allow us to be so blind to the experience of another to the extent that we blindly insist that ours is the only valid reality. If we’re smart, we greet these realizations (“diminishments,” microaggressions) with a philosophical mien. Stuff happens. People are weird. It’s the scrapes, slings and arrows of life. Still, exchanges like this can make you just feel weary and stupid and useless and — out of it.

I was thinking about that experience when I read Poetry Sister Kelly’s philosophical pantoum about, among other things, aging, and read the lines, Do not go gently into that good night– / Is that the best advice we can hope for? and found myself irately asking the same question, from a different perspective. Don’t engage the trolls? Is this the best advice we can hope for? Let them put you into whatever little box that suits them, and play nicely? Do I have to play this grade school game of “Who is cooler?” on their field, by their rules? Do I have to let this person work their way under my skin, and make me feel less than?

Short answer, HECK NO.

Kelly’s poem goes on, We have to lose ourselves. In time / we’ll find something better, a place we can / take back words, or let them go…. All good options, yeah? Time and losing ourselves, and finding our self again. But, the one thing that this poem emphasized for me is CHOICE. We still get to choose our attitude, our take on things, our path. No matter what.

I choose not to feel out of it, stupid, and unhip. I choose to be, like the cars of the late seventies, vintage and classic.


Ignition – all my plugs throw out a spark,
My engine purrs and builds into a roar.
The pipes and pumps are working fine tonight –
Road sings to rubber on the ribbon-track.

My engine purrs and builds into a roar —
We call old “vintage” in a ride this fine —
Road sings to rubber on the ribbon-track
Croons out, “Pull over if you can’t keep up.”

We call old “vintage.” In a ride this fine,
Who cares if we must add a little oil?
Cry out, “Pull over. If you can’t keep up
Get belted in, love. Gun it and hold on.”

Who cares if we must add a little oil?
The pipes and pumps are workin’ fine tonight.
Get belted in. Love, gun it. And hold on –
Ignition – all my plugs are throwin’ sparks.

2013 Benicia 037

*with love to e.e. cummings, for “she being Brand / -new”. – You imagined us cars, e.e., but we’re in the driver’s seat.

{april haiku, the fantastic michael j. rosen}

Back from Drumlanrig 24

If you have taught, or are a teacher of writing, go to Tricia’s blog and read Michael J. Rosen on poetic form. Much of what he says could be directed to the teaching of English in general, but I loved what he had to say as he referenced the wonderful Yeats quote, “We make out of the quarrel with others rhetoric, but of the quarrel with ourselves, poetry.” (“Anima Hominis,” Essays, 1924) Mr. Rosen describes form as the ring in which a writer can wrestle ideas. That’s very evocative for me. And the idea of poetry as arguing with myself? Also very true, in many ways — as I realized with my poems for this Friday. I laugh a little about how much angst is in my poetry, as if I’m still thirteen and annoyed with my mother — but I also find that experimenting with an working through these forms this year have given me an excuse to ask questions and …answer myself in poetic form. I hadn’t realized that’s what I was doing, but when I came up with a car-related pantoum, I realized it was in response to feeling like a broken-down old car. I’ll be sharing that Friday, so stay tuned. Meanwhile…

I’m ready to roll!
some cars are old, and others
are known as classics

2013 Benicia 021

{nat’l poetry month: poetry friday bonus}

2014 Benicia 004

Not really warm enough to eat outside yet, no matter how sunny it looks.

flirtation al fresco

relish the rustle –
crisp linen slides. Barely brushed
silken skin shivers

Crockett 14 HDR

stored up
perhaps moth and rust
are the least of concerns, on
hills made for rolling

Crockett 47 HDR


past orderly lines
and outside of boundaries
the wind entices

{clothing character: reflections on literary couture}

Occasionally I mess about with the New York Times for reasons other than to feed a rising dismay at the amount of the crossword I’m unable to complete. This week I looked through the online offerings at their craft of writing page, Draft , and read with my usual jaundiced writer’s eye. It was, of course, well-reasoned, tidy little piece – what in the Times wouldn’t be? – but I read it with the sense of dislocation that I often have when reading about adult writing.

old school typewriter I

I admit, since grad school, I no longer read much writing that is strictly literary fiction, aimed not just at adults, but educated adults with long attention spans and linguistic ability. I gratefully released Ian McEwan back into the wild, shoved Vladmir Nabokov under the bus, and showed V.S. Naipaul the door. (I kept some, like Barbara Kingsolver, Marianne Robinson, Jhumpa Lahiri, Chimamanda Adichie and A.M. Homes, lest you think me a total Philistine.) (HM. I just realized that I kicked out the men, and kept the women. This was unintentional. I think? I was mostly fine with the depressive, atmospheric Naipaul until he decided that women weren’t his literary equal, the toffee-nosed git.) I took up with low company, with science fiction writers and spinners of fantasy, and I took up with those who wrote for “lesser” readers, that is, for young adults. So, often what I read in shiny publications is not for me – I know that. And yet? Young adult fiction is statistically the strong, flowering branch of the publication tree, really and truly bearing fruit. What I read critically about writing should be about young adult literature as well. But, I digress.

This week’s Draft was about, interestingly, clothes. Clothes in classic literary fiction have always been a huge thing — you get an immediate sense of who a character is, and where they stand, based on their couture. The author points out how well Fitzgerald used this conceit in THE GREAT GATSBY, how Homer had Paris show up with the skin of a leopard over his shoulders in The Iliad, and how Jacob, gifting his son a many-hued coat, really should have sprung for at least new jeans for all the others.

I appreciated cultural critic Lee Siegel reminding me of various outfits worn by various characters, but I found some points jarring. When the author compares the classic Gatsby of 1925 with a central character in Jennifer Egan’s 2010 novel, A VISIT FROM THE GOON SQUAD, he kind of loses me.

Gatsby is wearing the novel’s themes: white as the fantasy of self-remaking without the blemishes of the past; silver and gold the currency-tinged colors of an impossible happiness. Egan’s character is simply wearing clothes.

Well, to be blunt, I don’t buy that. If you’ve read A VISIT FROM THE GOON SQUAD, it’s clear the basic black/white of Egan’s character says something about that character, too. After all, the Goon Squad is representative of time, in this collection of linked short stories. The characters, with ferocious intellect, massive talent, money, everything — NONE of them can stand against the goon squad. The black/white simple outfit, rather than just being “clothes” says something about the pared down defense that a human being can mount against the unassailable. You can’t dress for success against time – so you put on the uniform and just do what you can.

Siegel goes on:

Clothes have become more like costumes, intended more to hide than reveal who we are, or who we would like to be. An eclectic, basic, affordable style allows the super-rich to conceal their soaring exclusivity and to mimic humble circumstances, while it permits the rapidly contracting classes below them to camouflage their precarious status. The result is a place somewhere in between: a middle-class style without an actual middle class.

But, to a certain extent in modern society, isn’t this always the way it has been? The only reason – THE ONLY REASON – writers have name-dropped clothing brands and stuff into narrative has been to imply class – whether actual social class or the “aspirational” class of a poorer character. In the “chick lit” barrage of the 90’s and early “oughts” where everyone and his purse-sized terrier dropped Louboutin or Manalo, those labels meant less than nothing – except that some ridiculously cookie-cutter editorial assistant (weren’t they all???) was unwisely spending the paycheck that barely kept her housed in some cruddy little flat on aspirational crap – pretending to be someone she was not, in hopes that she looked the part enough to get the part someday.

More Siegel:

After all, we live amid a ceaseless torrent not just of new images, but of ones that have been computer-generated, mashed up and photoshopped. Appearances are no longer merely deceiving. They are increasingly worthless.

…which I think is a fascinating, fascinating thing to say about characters in literary fiction. We’ve been so visually manipulated that appearances are worthless. And, Siegel goes on to say, that the hunger in adult lit for the stripped-down, personal narrative is rising higher than the appetite for fiction. This to him is telling. Yet, in YA lit, the discussion about the need for more diverse images surges on – this is DEFINITELY a very telling difference between young adult and adult literature: we’re not shutting down the usefulness of appearances. We’re BEGGING for more to look at that reflects our real world, while adult fiction is withdrawing, perhaps, from the external world into the interior world – where maybe YA lit has been all along.


Something to think about.

{heart of your matter; matters of your heart}

I don’t remember where I got this, but I love it.

In grad school, my critique partner, J-Dawg (a petite, Caucasian, blue-eyed blonde who named herself thus), commented that every writer writes the same thing. Whilst at Mills, J chaired the first Aphra Behn conference, edited an anthology called “Scandalosissima Scoundrelia:’ A Collection of Critical Essays on Mary Delarivier Manley”, and her graduate thesis was something to do with the voices of 18th century women. I sensed a theme early on. It didn’t matter what class she was in, what paper she was writing, somehow, someway, J’s work ALWAYS came around to the writings of subversive women; or to make you all wince, Chicks Acting Up (Well-behaved women rarely make history, right?). “Every writer has a theme,” J-Dawg told me. I had no idea what mine was.

Fast forward to SAM mentioning once that I wrote like Joyce Carol Oates. “That’s a good thing!” he responded to my stricken silence. “Um… great!” I replied brightly, trying to remember what books I’d read of hers past ORDINARY PEOPLE when I was about ten (did I even finish?). I wondered if today’s teens had even ever heard of her. (Probably. BIG MOUTH & UGLY GIRL and AFTER THE WRECK weren’t that long ago.) I had no idea what my agent meant, and became somewhat obsessed with not fulfilling his prophesy – which is completely counter to what editors and publishing houses infer that you should do. Writers are supposed to have a brand, a market, a niche. A THING they do. I didn’t want to do a THING. I didn’t want to write like Joyce Carol Oates – awesome though she might be. I wanted to be free to do what I wanted. This silly supposition that I was supposed to be able to just write what came into my head is the sort of thing that gives marketing people migraines. And yet: marketing isn’t an exact science, is it? Maybe what I wanted to write next was going to be The Next Big Thing. I felt I was doing myself favors by not having a single thing that I did – I wanted to remain open to the possibility of doing it all.

Yeah. Like that works.

This morning I read a Cynsations interview on that very thing. Instead of calling it a theme, Janet S. Fox calls it a “core emotion.” And she agrees: every writer has one. The trick is finding yours.

Why? Because if you can find your core emotion, you can find your life’s thesis, as it were; your reason for writing. So many of us are utterly inarticulate as to the reasons why we’re doing this. The YA lit field is PACKED, stuffed. Why are we writing? Who needs one more book about, even one not about sparkly, emo vampires or zombies or fallen angels or, or, or — ? How can we justify our need to put ink to paper and scribble to the world if we don’t know exactly what it is we’re dying to say? (Because, as Charles Bukowski reminds us, unless it comes out of our souls like a rocket, and we absolutely cannot not say it, we should not speak.)

So, I looked at every book I’ve ever done – the two which are out of print, the more recent three with Knopf – and found they have a common theme. From summer camps to the ETO to Spring Break, every one of my novels has been about relationships. Tangled ones, romantic ones, familial ones, failed ones. This, I think, is what SAM picked up on – JCO is famous for depicting the fractured family. I can live with that, I thought. However, I read a review of HAPPY FAMILIES this week in Bookslut (thanks, Colleen!) which suddenly brought things into focus. Colleen writes:

“…Ysabel and Justin manage to get their parents to get real. It’s this focus on the damage to the family that makes Happy Families really succeed — Davis sees that with all the questions about what transgender means (and those questions are excellently explored), the real core to this novel is that the children were lied to. This is the essence to all of the novels in this column — in one way or another, the parents have failed their children, and in every instance they have insisted that failure did not take place. While some of them feel very badly — particularly in Happy Families — and while some are just complete asses — see Dora — the drama of each novel all comes around to the teenagers demanding fair and worthy attention from the people who are supposed to love them most. It doesn’t work out for all of these families; some are just too damaged to save, but in each case there are moments of amazing honesty in which the kids realize that they deserve to stand up and be heard; they deserve respect. For Ysabel and Justin, that moment is a good one, a not quite happily-ever-after-one, but at least a moment that shows them the way forward.

People who know me, or who get to know me find out in due time that I am not a liar (not a good one, anyway. I tell outrageous lies for fun, and watch people laugh). I am a storyteller – I believe in the power of fiction instead of lies – but I am also straightforward to the point, at times, of making myself and others uncomfortable. I do not respond well to lies. There is only one person I can think of, off the top of my head, who is still my friend after a lie, and there are extremely extraordinary circumstances involved. I have zero tolerance for liars and lying. It has been that way since I was a child and woke up to the lies I was told. Since then, it has been my personal mission to napalm out of existence all lies told to me… and the lies I have lived.

And within this epiphany, I begin to glimpse a theme… a core story. The lies our families tell (sit venia parentum), the lies with which we grow up, which are written on our bodies and secreted in the folds of our brains; the lies which are within the silence that we keep about the ways we’ve had to live, have had to compromise; the lies that inform our identity and shape us, and leave us rootless when we discover the truth… these are my heart matters, my core emotions. This informs my work: characters struggling to rip their way through what they thought they knew, into a world where what they hold within is ALL that is true.

Now, all I have to do is hold onto my truth, and hold it up, until I truly see it, and… well, then, everything should resolve itself from there.

…this is my hope, anyway; that all I will see is my truth, that all will see my truth. That the rocket will trail a light that rivals the sun.

{that intelligent librarian, Lizzy Burns}

“…ignorance and innocence are not identical…keeping teens from the books that will help them with difficult things under the belief that this makes the difficult things never happen does more damage than good. I’m also of the belief that once it’s decided that certain things should not be spoken aloud — incest, abuse, suicide — and not included in books, it makes it that much harder for those teens who do experience those things in life, either directly or indirectly, and people end up thinking that those people who experience those things should likewise be hidden. Not talked about except in a whisper.”

What are we talking about here? Wellll, the Wall Street Journal has discovered the Breaking News that there are Dark Topics covered in books for children and young adults. And such eeeevil is being force-fed to some imaginary children somewhere, and coarse writers, booksellers, reviewers and publishers – who are okay with bad words, vampires/self-mutilation, and probably child murder – are to blame.

Well, gee.

It seems like every six minutes someone who doesn’t actually read enough sets out to speak to a topic. I know, I know — it happens in schools all the time when students write papers. But, see, they’re not getting paid, they’re merely getting graded, and we’re not a captive audience to their nonsense (and their teachers hopefully can cure them of their bad habits). When someone is getting paid to espouse an opinion in a publication, I do wish they would check facts and try to present a balanced article. Our national conversation is so taken up with inflaming rhetoric that people have ceased to think, and merely hurl invective for entertainment. It’s ugly and unnecessary, so I shall set aside my tendency towards sarcasm and ask you to go and look at Liz’s piece in the School Library Journal about this, read, think and respond. The above quote is going to be on my email for awhile, because I agree strongly: pretending that reality doesn’t exist has never yet changed it.

Here’s to writing about reality, and helping literature continue to be both window and mirror – showing us what other people have survived, or maybe telling us that we, too can survive ourselves.

{cosmic notations}

Periodically, my life enters the Twilight Zone. Or, in this case, the Goldilocks Zone.

You’ve heard about it, by now. The planet twenty lightyears away, which has a good potential for human habitation. One paper described it as the “Goldilocks” planet — not too hot, not too cold, just right to support life.

The Gliese star has been known for awhile; NASA identified it way back in 2007 or earlier. The big news now is that they found a planet orbiting the star that is tidally locked to the sun (weird to think of galactic, system-wide tides!) — one side always in the light, one side always in the dark, and the strip down the middle – a temperate zone habitable by humans. Just like the moon only shows one face to the Earth, the little planet will always show one face to the star.

This is good news. Especially since I picked Gliese 581c out of NASA’s website as a place to base a fictional Earth colony I started writing about in December of 2008. It seemed like a reasonably close place for humanity to explore and colonize after the Moon.

I have written sixty thousand words on this story since January… getting to know all about that red star, and imagining what life would be like with a pink sky. And eventually, we might know.

The coincidence both thrills and amazes me …and slightly freaks me out.

{three steps forward, two steps back}


Because my writing group “meets” on Friday, Monday is one of the more difficult work days for me, at least when my work is up for critique. I set things aside for the weekend, but know that Monday means reading through line edits and commentary from my compatriots, and seeing through their eyes where I’ve fallen short in what I’m endeavoring to portray.

This past Friday there were so many questions asked about the political and military systems in my science fiction novel that I’m actually kind of dreading getting to work. Part of the problem is that my readers are reading the story episodically, only a few chapters a month, with long pauses in between — and the other issue is that not all of them are sci-fi geeks like I am. Their questions are good ones, but I am beginning to seriously question my own storytelling ability if they can’t tell a space station from a planet. (Granted: the activity thus far is all taking place indoors, not out on any planet surface, so they can be excused for being confused, but…) As always happens when I start wondering about myself, whispery, niggling questions become fifty foot speakers blaring doubts into my subconscious: You should probably just stick to historical fiction or something – it’s what people like from you. You can’t really write science fiction anyway — I mean, that’s not really an African American thing. Have you ever noticed there’s only one leading brown person cast per show on Star Trek? (Think about that, peeps – Originals to NextGen all the way through to DS9.) African Americans don’t even do steampunk. Why are you going where you’re not wanted? What do you know about science and technology and robotics? Your fight scenes are totally implausible, and no one will want to read this novel.

Welcome to the killing fields that reside in my brain.

It’s amazing how simple questions can just throw you – and throw you hard. Geez, it’s just a tiny thing, but it makes me want to sit down like a toddler in the middle of the mall, say “NO” and not go any further. What’s wrong with me? I don’t know what to say except that the minute I start asking myself stupid stuff like this, I know I have to push through. I know I’m doing something different and novel and unusual for me, which means there’s an opportunity for growth and innovation and to change the minds of people who actually think the way my mental ghetto does — and I want to take that opportunity.

I have a good writing group. Tech Boy has promised to read for me later this week. So, I really should be getting on with things, right?

I will. In a minute. First, though, I’m in the mood for some Milay.


I must not die of pity; I must live;
Grow strong. not sicken; eat, digest my food,
That it may build me, and in doing good
To blood and bone, broaden the sensitive
Fastidious pale perception: we contrive
Lean comfort for the starving, who intrude
Upon them with our pots of pity; brewed
From stronger meat must be the broth we give.
Blue, bright September day, with here and there
On the green hills a maple turning red,
And white clouds racing in the windy air!-
If I would help the weak, I must be fed
In wit and purpose, pour away despair
And rinse the cup, eat happiness like bread.

~Edna St. Vincent Millay

I’m kicking over the cup of despair and dumping it on the stairs. Enough with the pity party; on with the work.

Woodlands 36 HDR

Keep climbing.

{odds & ends and a heavy bucket of thoughts}

“I think we are well advised to keep on nodding terms with the people we used to be, whether we find them attractive company or not. Otherwise they turn up unannounced and surprise us, come hammering on the mind’s door at 4 a.m. of a bad night and demand to know who deserted them, who betrayed them, and who is going to make amends.”
                                                     ~ Joan Didion, Slouching Towards Bethlehem

And the real truth is, wherever you go, there you are.

Greetings from the Writing Bunker! I’m pulling ahead with my middle grade WIP, and having fun with it, and still pondering how to get everyone out of the jams I put them into in my YA SFF novel. It’s a lot harder than I thought, to have High Adventure going on. People spend a lot of time being chased and running away, I notice.

Dundee 258

You might notice that I have a “in case you need book report fodder” note on the right hand side of the page now. That’s because I’ve been asked for another interview, and one of the interviewers first questions was, “What are your books, and what are they about?”


No, seriously. You can’t make this stuff up.

So, to avoid feeling humiliated and/or taking a flamethrower to well-meaning but basically disinterested people who have been assigned to interview me, I’ve gathered some information to which I will point those kinds of interviewers so they don’t have to actually talk to me, if they’re inventive. I think I can safely declare us charter members of a newly formed Mutual Disinterest Society.


In mid-July there was a lot of chatter going on – at least on this side of the pond – about a series of books written by Enid Blyton. The publishers and the estate of Enid Blyton are going to update the language in the books from Archaic British English to Modern British English, in hopes of exciting a few more readers and widening the readership of a series of books, most of which were first published in the 1940’s, and contain pejorative phrases like “dirty tinker” to describe travelers or gypsy people, and “an awful swotter” to describe someone who liked to study and read.

Dundee 245

The furor was distressing to me, because so many people raved about “preserving” this series, and the language of the time, and how awful it was that the books were losing their special, uniquely British touch to be bowdlerized into the ordinary and the average. While I understood the preservationist point of view, and the fact that the books reflect the values, language and social mores of a bygone era, and that Children Should Be Made to Read Up, and Great Literature Ought Not To Be Brought Down To The Common Level, the fact remains: living, breathing kids in the now could use more good books (and I view Enid Blyton’s Famous Five series, with its racist, sexist and classicist language as “good books” with only the most skeptical eyes) to read, and the publisher, of course, wants to make more money, as do Enid’s heirs.

The mindset of “children should read up” reared its ugly head again recently when I read a discussion of The Novel: An Alternate History – Beginnings to 1600, by Steven Moore. This is a massive and allegedly scholarly tome, being deconstructed by a thoughtful, well-spoken woman, but the book itself and her subsequent blog post is not the point — what the author says in his introduction is what struck me.

“Do you want to know a secret?”
“Literature is not for everyone… when it comes to fiction, there’s a democratic assumption that anyone with a basic education should be able to read and enjoy any novel… Hence some feel it is reprehensible to write a novel beyond a high school reading age. … Why this bleeding-heart concern for ‘the mass of readers’, ‘the common reader’? They have more than enough to satisfy them, as the best-seller lists indicate; most of the publishing industry caters to their tastes. Why this intolerance for the minority of readers with a different textual orientation who prefer an alternative kind of fiction… Such fiction is challenging and unconventional, granted, but the fact that it’s not for everyone doesn’t make it elitist, snobbish, pretentious, arrogant, or wrong-headed. It’s simply not for everyone.”

Dundee 241 HDR

That really both blew me away, and really grieved me all at once, because I AM that “everyone” who was not raised and polished to special literate status, who didn’t study Greek mythology or Roman Classics or histories or Shakespeare, even, until college, or anything which would have propelled me along toward the shining towers of the Ivy Leagues. I AM that everyone, that nobody to whom Moore directs this, sneaking around the edges of what Other People read and thought, and how Other People lived, and sampling bits and pieces of that through literature.

How else was I supposed to become? And he thinks to criticize me for being the common reader!? Really? If you are not tied with a silver bib and fed Plutarch with a platinum spoon, how else are you supposed to arrive at these Big and Lofty Thoughts and ideals he espouses as especially for that “minority of readers”?

Perhaps what bothers me more is that there are people who found his statements obnoxious on the surface, but somehow true at heart. They felt critical of his tone, but indicated that literature which “pandered” to our “escapist childhood instincts” should really be avoided, and that we are a world of indiscriminate readers who need to elevate and raise ourselves, or else we get what we deserve in this world — the low, the inauthentic, the common and the trashy.

Or, you know, popular culture.

Read UP, children of the world! Be better than you are, be more worthy of the literature you’re supposed to love…

Mr. Moore attempts to justify the deliberate manufacture of a work which is only accessible to a few, not to make the work better, but simply to engage in an exercise of writing which somehow says that the people who read the work are better. This, to me, is “elitist, snobbish, pretentious, arrogant, or wrong-headed.”

Dundee 243 HDR

Imagine that the language being discussed in these works wasn’t the language of archaic Britain, and wasn’t language “beyond a high school reading age,” but was something like African American Vernacular English – or as it was called when I was an undergrad Black American English, or BAE. It’s not for everybody, certainly. Nobody panders to people who would read works written in dialectical English primarily used by inner city African Americans, certainly not the mainstream publishers. Would people be concerned about preserving a work (by not altering it), if it were written in “ebonics?” (Remember all the hysteria over that?) Would they find the work “elitist, snobbish, pretentious, arrogant, or wrong-headed?” Would they feel the need to defend the language used?


Something to think about this breezy Wednesday morn. Or not. This one might give you a headache.

Poetry Friday: Courage


Courage is the price that Life exacts for granting peace.

The soul that knows it not, knows no release

From little things.

Knows not the livid loneliness of fear

Nor mountain heights where bitter joy can hear

The sound of wings.

How can Life grant us boon of living, compensate

For dull gray ugliness and pregnant hate

Unless we dare

The soul’s dominion? Each time we make a choice, we pay

With courage to behold resistless day

And count it fair.

— Amelia Earhart, 1927

appeared in Survey magazine

July 1, 1928 p. 60

Cross-posted at Finding Wonderland. Poetry Friday is at Mommy’s Favorite Children’s Books.